


a hard world for the little things

by othersideofthis (hikaru)



Category: gill & gilbert (webseries)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, boys wearing makeup, dystopian western brothel-but-maybe-also-spies AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 17:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis
Summary: He closes his eyes. Exhales. His tongue darts out to lick at his lips, and Patrick has to look away. “Brian,” he says. “My name’s Brian.” When he opens his eyes, his lips curl up into a smile. “What am I supposed to call you?”





	a hard world for the little things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ionthesparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/gifts).



> clearly the weird AU fandom needed?
> 
> content warning for insinuations that not everything these boys have had to do in the past has been consensual
> 
> anyway, happy day-after-yuletide
> 
> title from murder by death's "hard world"

Patrick knows he doesn’t really have a say in things, but still, when Mama drags him down to the front hall and asks, “which one do you want,” he plays the game right along with her.

There’s six new young men lined up in the hall. Most of them look angry, like they’re ready to throw a punch, and the only reason they haven’t is because Mama’s guards have had their eyes on them all morning. Those kinds are trouble. He’s seen them come and go. He even used to take punishment on their behalf, trying to save them from having to go back out to what lies beyond the doors of Mama’s house.

No more.

He scans their faces, looking for one who won’t be awful to room with. One of the guys in the middle of the pack catches his eye. He’s taller, lanky. Kind of fidgety. His long brown hair keeps falling down into his eyes, but when he nudges it aside, Patrick catches a glimpse of his determined expression.  He looks like he has a mind of his own, but he also looks old enough to know better than to use it too much.

“That one,” Patrick says, pointing him out to Mama.

“Good.” Mama smiles. “I was hoping.” She gestures at one of the armed guards at the door. “Take his things to the room.” And to Patrick: “You can go.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes one last look at the one he chose, then turns and heads back up the stairs.

 

* 

 

Patrick doesn’t get back to his room until nightfall. Today was a rare day of sunlight work. Mama had outside clients for him, and any day he can leave the house is a good one. He comes back with some change in his pocket, three referrals for future assignments, and an ache in his thighs that he wasn’t expecting, given how light his schedule was. 

He’s forgotten all about his new roommate until he opens the door and sees him, sitting cross-legged on the small cot that Patrick had been using to hold his extra clothes instead of putting them away when they were brought in from the laundry.

The new kid holds a mirror in one hand, a stick of eyeliner in the other. His lips are already a deep red. It’s a bold color for a new kid here.

Patrick holds his breath as the kid makes quick work of the eyeliner. One deft flick of his wrist and the pencil glides across his skin. He hums under his breath as he touches up the wings extending from the corners of his eyes. It’s not a tune Patrick recognizes, but there’s some skill behind it. It’s worlds better than Patrick’s own tuneless warbling, at least.  

This kid makes everything look so easy. Patrick’s almost jealous of him.

He sets the eyeliner down on the bed and pulls a clip from his hair, letting it all fall back down into his eyes. After fussing with his hair for a bit, he tilts his head back, angles the mirror to get a better look.

He’s striking, Patrick realizes. The blood red cutting across his lips. The way he peeks out from behind his hair. All the visitors are going to love him. 

Better get this over with. Patrick clears his throat.

The kid startles, his humming coming to an abrupt halt. He fumbles the mirror in his hands, eventually dropping it to the bed; his eyes go wide, his mouth drops open. 

With the makeup, it’s a good look for him, the red rimming the perfect open  _ O  _ of his lips.

Patrick finds himself with the distinct urge to press his thumb against this kid’s lower lip, push in past his teeth. He thinks he’d look beautiful, and Mama would kill Patrick for that thought, if she knew. 

“Uh. Hi.” Patrick waves, trying to get his mind off of that particular image. “I see someone got you set up already?”

The kid clasps his hands in his lap. “The guard,” he says. His voice squeaks a bit when he talks. The visitors will love that, too. “They brought my luggage up, then gave me the rulebook. I read it already. Twice.” 

Patrick lifts his eyebrows. “That’s more than I’ve ever read it.” 

He gasps. “How do you stay out of trouble?”

“I don’t.” Patrick lets the door to their room swing shut behind him, finally, and flips the deadbolt. “No, that’s a lie.”

“Based on what the rulebook says they do to liars here,” he says, “I would hope so.”

Patrick sits down on his own bed. “When you’ve been here since the beginning, you get some privileges.”

“The beginning?” His hands twist together. “Since before the War?”

“No, no.” Patrick shakes his head. “It was a few years after that Mama brought us out here. But since then.” He pushes his hands through his hair. He doesn’t like talking about  _ before _ , but he supposes he was the one to start the conversation. “I was already grown, out of school, all that. There wasn’t anywhere else to go. Mama took me in, what, almost ten years ago now? It’s been a long time, but there wasn’t anyone left for me, so.” He exhales, then changes the subject quickly, before this boy can get any ideas. “What am I supposed to call you?”

A sour look crosses the kid’s face. “They told me my name’s Songbird now.”

Patrick looks at him for a long moment. It makes sense that Mama would give him that name. He seems bright, cheerful. Like he could get men to talk, even if they didn’t want to. Like he’d come right back home and spill all their secrets to Mama, as quick as he can. That’s probably why Mama pulled him out of whatever life he was living and had him brought here. This little bird’s going to sing, for certain. “That’s your name for visitors.” Patrick gestures at the closed door. “For the outside. What am I supposed to call you?”

The kid swallows heavily. “I didn’t think we were allowed.”

Patrick leans forward, unfolds one long arm to breach the gap between their beds. He rests the tips of his fingers on the boy’s knee. “I told you, I didn’t read the rulebook. I’m not calling you fucking Songbird.”

He closes his eyes. Exhales. His tongue darts out to lick at his lips, and Patrick has to look away. “Brian,” he says. “My name’s Brian.” When he opens his eyes, his lips curl up into a smile. “What am I supposed to call you?”

“Mama has them call me Cactus.” He snorts; he’s always hated it, but it’s not like he had a say in it, all those years ago.

Brian laughs. “Cactus? Is it because you’re—” He lifts one hand in the air and waves it above his head. “Very, very—” Brian pauses here, looks Patrick up and down. He’s not at all subtle, when his eyes linger. “Very tall?”

Patrick stands back up and poses, arms bent upwards at ninety-degree angles, echoing the look of the mighty saguaros he saw when Mama took them west, when it was safe to travel again. Back then, fresh faced, just barely 20 but still so naive, he was fascinated by the way the foliage changed as they drove on, the lush, rolling green of the northeast giving way to flat plains, which petered out into endless brown desert.

He refused to give his name when they stopped one night in one of those dusty desert towns, when Mama pressed him into the waiting arms of a man who was ready to hand over money — real coins, legal tender, not just a wish and a prayer and some shelter for the night — and so she snapped, “Call him Cactus, for all I care.”

And the man did, the word dripping off of his lips as he put a hand on the back of Patrick’s neck and pushed him down to his hands and knees in the back of a van.

He’s always hated the name.

He shakes his head, pushing away the old memory. “No,” he tells Brian with a wry smile. “It’s because I can be a little bit of a prick.”

Brian barks out a laugh, then immediately clamps his hands over his mouth, stifling the noise.

“It’s okay,” Patrick says. “In here, it’s okay.” Brian slowly relaxes, letting his hands fall back down to his lap. “You get some privileges too, being here with me.” Patrick sinks down on the bed next to Brian. He doesn’t ask first. He doesn’t really think he needs to.

“What do I—”

“Patrick,” he says. “Even outside of here.” He reaches over Brian and picks up the discarded eyeliner. “I don’t let anyone I actually like call me Cactus.”

A gentle smile curls across Brian’s mouth. “You already know where I fall on that spectrum?”

Patrick draws a line across the back of his hand with the eyeliner. It’s shaky at best. He’s never had great hands for this. “Call it a hunch.” He looks up at Brian again, then reaches a hesitant hand out, lets his fingertips brush across the skin at the corner of Brian’s eye, over the bold black eyeliner extending out. “Hey, how are you so good at that already?”

Brian’s cheeks go pink. “It took a long time for the War to really hit us, where I lived. Things were normal for a long time.” He presses his lips together. “I got most of the way through college before it got shut down. It was an art school. We all got good at this.” Brian takes the eyeliner back from Patrick. He holds it in his hands like it’s something precious. “It’s been a long time. I didn’t know if I remembered how anymore.”

“Can you show me?”

“I figured you already knew, being here.” Still, though, he leans back, studying Patrick’s face. It’s a little too much, having Brian looking at him that closely. He shifts his eyes away, focusing on a brown stain on the ceiling.

“I know enough to get by,” he says, “but Mama stopped sending me visitors who want someone pretty a long time ago.”

It’s Brian’s turn to reach out a hesitant hand. His fingers coast over Patrick’s cheekbones. “You have the face for it,” he says. “Maybe the beard would have to go, though.”

“Oh, no thank you to that.” Patrick runs a hand over his chin, the stubble dusting across his jaw. “I fought for this beard.” Literally.

“Still.” Brian takes Patrick’s chin in his hand. “May I?”

Patrick shivers. No one’s truly asked him permission for anything in ages.

Brian drops his hand away. Leans back to get a better look at Patrick. “Please?”

It didn’t occur to him that he actually had to answer. “Whatever you want.”

A grin flashes across Brian’s face. “Hold on to these,” he says, gently pulling Patrick’s glasses off and handing them back to him. “Close your eyes.”

Never in a thousand years would Patrick want to close his eyes in front of a stranger, but Brian feels safe. He takes a deep breath and then complies.

He jumps at the first touch of Brian’s fingers against his face. Just pure instinct, he tells himself. “Shh, shh,” Brian coos. He puts his fingers through Patrick’s hair instead, soft, soothing strokes until Patrick’s breathing steadies. “You’re fine. It’s just a second.”

Patrick exhales and forces himself to relax. This time when Brian takes his face in his hands, pulls at the corner of his eye, he stays still enough for Brian to go to work. He can feel the tip of the eyeliner dragging across his skin and he does his best not to flinch. Brian makes quick work of it, though, and before Patrick realizes it, Brian’s finished both eyes.

He taps Patrick on the cheek. “Open up.” Patrick does, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because Brian’s face looms in front of him. His smile is wide, genuine, and Patrick almost wants to cry. It’s maybe the first time anyone’s looked at him like that since the War without expecting something in exchange.

Brian tilts Patrick’s head from side to side, taking him in. “Can I do a couple other things?”

Patrick shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

And there’s that smile again as Brian dives for a small bag on his bed. He fishes around in it, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he surveys all sorts of tubes and pots and gadgets. Patrick only sort of knows what all of that different makeup is for, but he does know he’d do anything to watch Brian beam at him like that.

“Here, tilt your head up again,” Brian says, pressing his fingers under Patrick’s chin. Patrick gets to watch this time as Brian chooses a lipstick color. It’s more of a neutral, not nearly as bold as what Brian picked out for himself. Patrick forces himself to look away, unnerved by Brian’s intent gaze as he works.

A smattering of blush, high across his cheekbones. “Open your eyes wide.” A hint of mascara. “Not too much,” Brian says. “Your eyes already look huge as it is.” His hand rests on Patrick’s cheek, thumb running light over the stubble of his beard. “All done. Here, look.”

After Patrick puts his glasses back on, Brian picks up the mirror and presses it into Patrick’s hands. This, too, is an activity Patrick would usually avoid, but Brian looks so eager. He raises the mirror up and almost gasps. The thick black eyeliner fades away to smoke. The rest of what Brian’s done looks subtle in comparison, but it works.

He doesn’t look pretty, necessarily, but he looks dangerous.

Mama will love it.

Patrick makes a content noise, then hands the mirror back. “Good,” he says. “If I need to go somewhere where they want this,” he gestures at his face, “will you help?”

There’s that smile again. It lights up Brian’s whole face. Even his nose scrunches up. Patrick hates it. “Of course,” Brian agrees, “but.”

“There’s always a but.” Patrick’s face falls. Like he should expect anything else, working here, having this be his life. “What do you want?”

Brian waves his hands. “No, no, nothing bad! I mean, at least, I don’t think it’s bad? It might be taking advantage, a bit, but—” Brian frowns. “I’ve never—Mama said I already had to work tonight and I don’t—what should I expect?”

“Oh.” That’s—that’s not at all what Patrick thought he was going to ask. “It depends. Who are you seeing?”

Brian rolls his eyes up, taps one finger against his cheek as he thinks. “Mama said to call him Pilot.” Brian frowns. “I wish we could just use names. I’m never going to remember who’s Pilot and who’s Greenbriar and who’s Teakettle or whatever.”

“You’ll learn. The names all relate to something about the person. They get easier, once you get to know the man. Pilot was in the Air Force, before the War. The Council still leans on him for help. All Mama wants is to know what the Council’s been asking him.” Patrick purses his lips together; the sticky feeling of the lipstick feels foreign to him. “And Pilot’s easy. Get a couple drinks in him and he’ll start talking.”

Brian looks down at his lap and twists his hands in the hem of his shirt. “And what’s he going to want from me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Patrick puts on his most reassuring smile. He’s met Pilot before. He’s pretty sure, in fact, that Pilot knows that Mama’s dealing in secrets as much as she is in sex, but he still keeps coming back. Whatever secrets he’s spilling aren’t enough to get him in trouble, apparently. “A cigarette or two. A glass of whiskey, neat. You, you’ll just climb right up into his lap. You’ll know when. He’s just going to want to kiss. I’ve never known him to want anything else. And when he talks, you remember what he says, and you buzz for Mama as soon as he’s gone.”

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Oh, god.” Brian covers his eyes with his hands. “What if I fuck it up? I’m absolutely going to fuck it up.”

“Trust me.” Patrick rests one hand against Brian’s thigh. “You couldn’t possibly.” 

He drops his hands away from his eyes. His eyeliner’s a little smudged. It only makes him prettier. “I’ve never done this before!” He pauses, tilts his head. “Well, no, I mean, I’ve never—not like  _ this _ . Of course I’ve kissed people and hooked up and done all sorts of stuff.”

It sounds, to Patrick, like a very big bluff.

“Show me,” Brian blurts. He reaches out and grabs Patrick’s wrists. “You know how it goes. Show me?”

Patrick tries to swallow, but his throat’s gone dry. “If you’ve read the rulebook, then you know—”

Brian squeezes tighter. “You’ll make sure we don’t get in trouble, right?”

He sighs. It’s too long-suffering, for only having known Brian since he stepped foot in this room. “Of course.” Mama’s little Songbird, indeed. Jesus. Patrick can’t say no to those eyes, that pout. Even if it’s a put-on — and Patrick wouldn’t put it past Mama, to find someone who can lie that well — he’s helpless. Men are going to come from all over just to spill their secrets to Brian, and they’ll pay good money to do it. He gently dislodges Brian’s hands. “Of course I’ll make sure.” What’s he going to do, tell on himself? Mama tolerates him because he’s good at what he does, because he gets her answers she wasn’t even expecting him to come home with.

Patrick crosses the room to the small armchair in the corner. He tosses a few stray shirts onto the floor, kicks a pair of shoes out of the way, then flops down into the chair. He makes himself big. Legs spread, arms both hanging over the sides. “So you’ll come in,” Patrick says. “And he’ll be in a chair. Nicer than this. He’s older. Late forties, probably. Very tall. Very self-important. Kind of like a hot suburban dad silver fox, okay?”

Brian shakes his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There’s a gleam in his eye, though. “No, no, that’s a lie. I’m good. I’m good. I’ve got a picture working here. Okay, okay, go. Scene.”

“He’ll ask you to pour him a drink, right away. He’ll make small talk. What’s your name, what did you do before Mama’s. He’ll probably get through two drinks’ worth of bullshit questions. It doesn’t even matter what you say. Eventually, he’ll pat his knee and says—” Patrick pauses and clears his throat, then taps his knee, just the way Pilot always did with him. “Come here, Songbird,” he says, his voice dropped deeper, doing his best imitation of Pilot. 

Brian squeaks.

“Oh, he’ll love that.” Patrick taps his knee again. “Now come here.” Brian advances hesitantly. Pilot’s going to love that, too, this shy act. Patrick closes his legs a bit, leaving room on either side of his thighs. “And so you come here, and make yourself comfortable.” He reaches out, getting one hand on Brian’s hip to pull him in close, forcing him to stumble the last few steps forward. “Up. There’s plenty of room. You’re small.”

Brian scowls, but he puts one knee up on the chair, then the other, and then he’s straddling Patrick, and, oh, that’s very close. Patrick closes his eyes.

“What do I do now?” Brian asks. His voice is barely above a whisper.

Patrick wasn’t lying; he’d never read Mama’s rulebook, but he knows the gist of what’s in there. Besides, most of the rules exist because he’s broken them at one time or another.

Meet your curfew. Don’t lie about what the men tell you. Tell Mama if they hurt you when they weren’t supposed to.

And don’t fall for anyone else in the house. No matter what.

Mama should have known better. Letting Patrick pick Brian as his new roommate was just asking for trouble.

Patrick looks up at Brian. He lifts up one hand and curls it around the back of Brian’s neck. Pilot loves cliches. He thinks they make him sound smart. He’ll use his worst lines on Brian, and they’ll work. That’s just the kind of guy Pilot is. “Are you going to sing for me, Songbird?”

Before Brian can come up with an answer, Patrick pulls him in and kisses him. Brian makes a shocked gasp against his mouth, his body stiff for a moment, before he relaxes into it. His hands curl in Patrick’s shirt as he settles in, their bodies pressing together as he lets Patrick take more of his weight.

Patrick tries to remember the way that Pilot kisses—like he’s got all the time in the world. And he does; he pays Mama a whole day’s wages for anyone he gets from the house, no matter how much time he spends with them. He takes his time.

Patrick doesn’t want to take his time. He hasn’t kissed anyone he really, truly wanted to in longer than he can remember. He’s not supposed to be kissing Brian, even in the interest of educational training, but he’s absolutely enjoying it anyway.

Eventually he needs to break for air; he pulls away almost sadly. Brian’s lipstick is just a bit smudged. He almost mentions it, because Brian will need to fix that before he goes downstairs to meet Pilot, but he gets distracted by Brian’s eyes, pupils blown. He keeps looking at Patrick’s mouth.

“Do you get the picture?” Patrick asks. His voice is rough. He hates it, just a little bit, letting this new kid know so quickly that he’s already gotten under Patrick’s skin.  

While Brian’s still trying to form words, Patrick tugs Brian’s collar aside and mouths at his neck. He’s careful not to leave any marks other than the pale smear of his lipstick, but it’s hard to behave. “Any questions?” he murmurs against Brian’s skin.

“How—” Brian’s voice cracks. Patrick feels the catch in his throat, right up against his lips. “How do I know when he’s done with me?”

“Because,” Patrick starts, and he reaches up to grasp one of Brian’s hands in his. He should, in all seriousness, dump Brian out of his lap and just narrate the rest of Pilot’s habits, but he’s already gone this far. He moves their hands together against the front of his pants, dragging Brian’s fingers along the outline of his erection. “Because eventually, he’s going to shove your hand down the front of a pair of trousers that cost more money than you’ve ever had in your life. When he’s done, you’re done.”

Brian presses his face against Patrick’s hair. His breaths come out in harsh gasps. “What if I want more?” he asks, his fingers twitching against Patrick’s pants.

Patrick barely avoids biting his own tongue. “He’s never asked anyone for more,” he says. Patrick really has been here since the beginning of Mama’s operations. He knows most of these men like the back of his hand, and Pilot especially. And that’s all he ever wants: a pretty young man to kiss him while he jacks off. Never anything else.

“No,” Brian says, and there’s some force behind the word. “What if I want more  _ now _ ?”

“Oh,” Patrick breathes out. He wants to exercise some restraint, but Brian’s leaning in, mouthing at his earlobe, and he just gives up. If he gets in trouble with Mama, it will be worth it. He’ll take Brian’s punishment for him, too, if it comes down to it. It doesn’t matter.

Patrick lets go of Brian’s hand just long enough to open up his pants. Brian needs no encouragement there; he bats away Patrick’s hand almost immediately. His movements are a little inelegant as he settles Patrick’s length in his hand, curls his fingers around, but what he lacks in finesse, he makes up for in enthusiasm.

It takes a while for Patrick to get close—working all morning for people far less considerate of his needs took its toll—but before long, he’s jerking his hips up against Brian’s touch.

“Brian,” he gasps out, and he feels a shiver roll through Brian’s body, too. He’s not going to get to hear his real name too often outside the walls of this room, and it feels almost a little sacred, rolling off Patrick’s tongue now, like this.

“Go on, go on,” Brian says, lips moving against Patrick’s temple, and it’s not like he could have stopped himself, anyway. He locks one arm around Brian’s waist and arches up, coming with a litany of curses and Brian’s name dripping from his lips.

His head swims as Brian ducks down kisses him sweetly. He’s absolutely ruined, he realizes. Someone like Brian is supposed to be saved for the visitors. He shouldn’t be wasted on someone like Patrick, who’s been here so long only because he has nowhere else to go. He is good to the men Mama sends him to, but this—this is something he’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to have.

“Thank you,” Brian says, snapping Patrick out of his spiral. “I didn’t think it was right, that my first memory of being here would be with a stranger.”

Patrick leans back to look at Brian. His cheeks are flushed, hair a mess. He’s in the middle of wiping his hand off on his pants.

“You barely know me,” Patrick points out.

“I know your name,” Brian reasons. He rests his hands on Patrick’s chest. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else I’ve met here so far.”

He can’t entirely argue with that. “Do you need—” He gestures at Brian’s pants, shy suddenly about putting to words what they’ve just done.

“Oh, no,” Brian says, a chuckle overtaking his words. “No, no, that’s, ah. That took care of itself, and I should probably shower very soon or I may be permanently disgusting.” He starts to shift off of Patrick’s lap, but leans in for one last kiss, this one lighter, less urgent, than any of the others.

“I don’t work tonight,” Patrick says after Brian pulls away, eases off his lap. “So I’ll be here when you come in.” Patrick tucks himself back into his pants, zips them up. He doesn’t want to know what he looks like, how much of a mess he is.

“Is that a date you’re proposing?” Brian arches an eyebrow.

Patrick shrugs. “I’m proposing you come home and tell me all about your night. Is that a date?”

Brian stretches his arms up over his head. He’s a wreck, too. “As long as it ends up in your bed,” Brian says, “I’m fine with it.”

“Oh, good,” Patrick says. “That cot’s where all my clothes go. I was really not into the idea of having to clean it off. That’s so much tr—”

Patrick’s interrupted by a soft series of tones chiming from a loudspeaker. “Twenty minutes until the night shift,” he says. He stands up, crosses the room to take Brian’s face in his hands. “Go get yourself cleaned up, then go to the front hall.” He kisses Brian again, and now, he takes his time. He wants Brian to be thinking of him when he goes to work tonight. “You’ll be marvelous.” One more kiss, quick this time. “I’ll be here.”

It’s hard, but Patrick lets Brian walk away. He’s got a job to do.

He opens the door and slips out into a hopefully-empty hallway. Patrick doesn’t want him to go and get ready, doesn’t want him to go and meet Pilot for the first time.

What Patrick wants to push him down on his knees and wreck him more.

This is absolutely going to be a problem.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [transistor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760093) by [fishcola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola)




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